


Man with a Mission in Two or Three Editions

by Draycevixen



Series: Man with a Mission [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, the third and final part of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/19500">Man with a Mission</a> series. </p><p>As this series began 18 months ago and the second part was written over a year ago, it’s safe to say it’s been somewhat jossed but I always try to finish what I start. </p><p>Basic things to remember: they didn’t trust each other as much as they do now, Reese had yet to acquire his deluxe apartment in the sky and Bear had not yet joined their family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Swimming upwards through a lake of Orange Julius, he was drowning, too tired to keep going. Hands pulled at his shirt, trying to help. It was Reese, leaning over the side of a rowboat reaching out to grab him— 

His eyes snapped open. Where was he? 

He closed his eyes, faking sleep until he could figure it out. He was in a strange bed, not his, wearing... a t-shirt and sweatpants, also not his. 

He turned slightly on his pillow. John. _Reese_ , the pillow smelled like Mr. Reese. Safe. He moved slowly to sit upright, his body protesting every move. 

He was alone in a cheap studio apartment he’d never seen before, but from the state of the pillows and the sheets he hadn’t spent the night alone. He tried to think around the hammering in his head as he shifted awkwardly sideways to sit on the edge of the bed. 

A blurred kaleidoscope of memories hit him. He’d met with Carter— Been on his way to meet Denham for dinner— Abducted off the street— phone call— drugged— Reese driving the heel of his boot into Barrett’s bleeding shoulder— 

Why was everything so muddled? He raised his hands to rub at his temples before looking for his glasses. Luckily, they were on the bedside table and under them was a note in Reese’s familiar scrawl: _Don’t go anywhere. Laptop and cell phone on the table. I’ll bring you some clothes from the library._

What could have possibly happened to his clothes? How had he ended up sharing a bed with Reese _again_? 

He started to stand up only to drop back down.

He’d been drugged. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the avid expression on Barrett’s face as he’d pushed the plunger. What had he told Reese? What hadn’t he told him? What would Reese have asked? Everything, he’d have asked about everything. 

Why had he ever allowed Reese to seduce him? His lip quirked at the mere thought of calling something as subtle as being hit by a Mack truck ‘seduction.’ He was being ridiculous. He knew why he’d allowed it to happen, couldn't afford to lie to himself about it, and hadn't been able to forget it in the days since. 

He’d gone into it willingly, with eyes wide open, no, not seduction. He shook off the memory of Reese straddling him. He had work to do.

 

When Reese walked into the apartment an hour later, carrying a suit bag, a drinks tray with two cups in it and a bag of pastries, Finch had showered and was working on the laptop.

“Good morning, Finch.” Reese’s voice was oddly gravelly even for Reese. He put the drinks and pastries down by Finch and hung up the suit bag. 

“Are you getting a cold, Mr. Reese?”

“No, just didn’t get enough sleep.”

He just managed to stop himself from looking at the rumpled sheets on the bed. “There’s no new number as of yet, so I’ll just change my clothes and leave you to it.” 

“I brought your navy suit the one with the grey chalk stripe. Hope I matched everything to your satisfaction.” 

“Anything would have been fine, Mr. Reese, as long as it fits me.” 

He was very self-conscious in Reese’s sweatpants which had the bottoms rolled up to stop him tripping over them. He went and unzipped the suit bag. It looked like Reese had remembered exactly how he’d last worn the suit, right down to the red pocket square. There were even clean boxers and socks in the bottom of the suit bag. 

He thought he should probably just change in front of Reese, take the opportunity to demonstrate how little he cared about the whole thing, but he felt frozen in place just thinking about it. Instead, he took the bag down from the hook. “May I use your razor?”

“Knock yourself out, Finch.” 

He took the suit bag into the bathroom with him.

 

When he came back out of the bathroom, wearing his suit and feeling less vulnerable for it, Reese was perched on the edge of the bed. 

His shoes were sitting by the solitary chair, obviously freshly polished. He sat down to put them on. 

“No questions for me, Finch?”

He had hundreds of them. “Only one, Mr. Reese.” He finished tying his shoe laces and stood up. “Where was the warehouse located exactly? My memory is still a little fuzzy about many of the details.”

Reese looked relieved, which was very suspicious in and of itself. “Red Hook.” Reese stood and handed him a piece of paper with the address written on it. “I assume you’re going to destroy any surveillance footage?”

“You assume correctly. I’ll see you later at the library.”

“If you’ll wait a minute—”

“I have a driver waiting downstairs. I have a few errands to run.” He’d texted the driver from the bathroom, using GPS to direct him to a street corner a block away. 

Reese stared at him for a moment and then turned back to the table and handed him the cup of tea and the pastry bag before crossing the room to hold the apartment door open for him. 

 

At the library, he made sure to drink a bottle of water, the drugs seemed to have dissipated but he was still dehydrated, before taking a second bottle to his desk. Having the address made short work of finding the security footage from the warehouse complex. He watched Reese making his usual understated entrance, just to make sure he’d found the right feeds, and downloaded the rest to his computer before deleting it from its original storage site. He replaced it instead with a loop of pre-Reese footage. Luckily, the police would still be tied up with dead bodies and live suspects caught red-handed at the scene and the search for incriminating footage would come later. 

He had several texts from Denham, concerned about his failure to meet him for dinner, but he’d led Denham to believe that he had a very irregular schedule due to being a trader in international markets, so it was easy enough to come up with a plausible excuse. 

He’d always hated loose ends, but with them all tied up and no new number he had far too much time to think about what he might have told Reese while drugged. And then there was still the question of the rumpled bed sheets. He was mortified to think he might have thrown himself at Reese, on top of telling him all his secrets. 

It was difficult to judge precisely what might have happened from his brief contact with Reese that morning. Reese certainly hadn’t had any of his usual bravado when he’d found out something new about Finch’s past. In fact, Reese had seemed guilty about something, but it was his state of being to be guilty, something they unfortunately had in common. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything past Reese shooting Barrett and then telling him they had to move before the police got there. When he started getting random thoughts about walruses and The Village People he knew that trying to force the memories to emerge wasn’t going to work. Coding and reading were his only reliable sources of distraction. With no new number, he briefly considered picking up the copy of _1984_ he was currently reading, but a niggling headache discouraged him from proceeding. 

Carter. He’d promise her some more information on the DeLuca brothers’ financial records. That shouldn’t be too difficult to find.

 

Carter didn’t seem that surprised to find Finch sitting in the passenger seat of her car when she came out of the coffee shop. She just got in the car and raised one inquiring eyebrow. 

“I found some information on the DeLuca brothers for you.” Finch handed over the file and she nodded her thanks, stashing it in the car door as he ran a hand across the dashboard. “Nice car, Detective, is it new?”

“How’d you know it was mine?”

He smiled at her and she looked exasperated for a moment. 

“You’ve ridden in it before, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember.” 

“Excuse me?” Was she pulling his leg?

“With John.” She turned in the driver’s seat to face him, obviously trying to hold back a smile. “When Sir Galahad rode to your rescue. Well, drove straight through a security fence and shot up half of Brooklyn.”

“You say tomato...”

“So where’s your guard dog?” She glanced into the back seat like Reese might be curled up back there without her knowing. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, Detective Carter.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “John. You should have seen him. I’m still surprised he didn’t actually start growling. It was gone midnight when I smuggled you guys out from the warehouse under a blanket in the back seat. There he was, bleeding, and he still wouldn’t let go of you.”

He knew that most people wouldn’t even notice the increased tension in his shoulders but she wasn’t most people and he had to be very careful around her. “I was not myself, Detective. Whatever I might have said—”

“You didn’t get chance to say anything much. Reese wouldn’t stop talking, never would have guessed he even had that many words in him. You’d start to say something about your past and he’d just drown you out.”

 

_“Harold, can you hear me? You’ve got to be quiet now.” Reese’s fingers brushing across his temple had been so incredibly gentle._

_“Mommy promised me an Orange Julius. You want me to be good, that’s what I want.”_

 

Finch blinked at the vividness of the memory, as he drew his own fingertips across his temple. 

“Made quite the pair. You, high as a kite, and Mr. One Syllable rambling on about his childhood and his army days.”

Finch leaned forward slightly. “He actually told you about himself?”

“Believe me, I don’t know any more about him now of real use than I did before he started talking. Little League baseball uniforms that didn’t fit properly and the drill sergeant from hell don’t build a profile.” She smirked at him over her coffee cup. “Still, he’s a decent tenor, got to give him that. He sings a mean _YMCA_.”

“I thought I’d imagined that.” Reese had rocked him slightly in his arms as he’d sang, arms carefully bracing Finch against the jarring of potholes as Carter had driven them back to Manhattan.

“I can’t quite believe it myself and I’m still sad he didn’t make the gestures.” She put her coffee cup in the cup holder and raised her arms as far over her head as the car roof would allow, in the rough shape of a ‘Y.’

Now Finch was the one who was grinning. “How very disappointing.”

He could hear her humming the song under her breath. Finch took a few calming breaths, still anxious not to appear too anxious. “So John didn’t… ask me any questions?”

“Not in front of me he didn’t. Wouldn’t let me either and believe me there are a few I’d have loved to get answered.”

“And I didn’t volunteer a bunch of information anyway?”

“Like I said, you didn’t get a chance, as hard and fast as John was talking I’d guess he’s hoarse today.” 

“Thank you, Detective. I hope the file helps.” 

He climbed out of the car and watched while she drove away before checking his phone. Still no number. He did have a text on his phone from one of the many booksellers he did business with, notifying him they’d acquired a signed first edition of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and wanting to know whether he was interested. Mr. Gull immediately hailed a cab to go and buy his book. 

After the bookstore, he checked his phone again, still no new number and even more curiously no message from Reese. He couldn’t remember the last time Reese had been out of contact for so long while not actually working undercover on a number. He regretted, momentarily, that he hadn’t had time to install a camera in Reese’s latest apartment, but he’d promised himself that he’d never actually check the camera feeds unless he believed Reese to be in trouble and he didn’t believe such to be currently the case. If anyone was in trouble, it was him. 

He went to Antonio’s for lunch, apologizing profusely to a bemused Antonio for having missed his dinner reservation. Antonio found it difficult to mind when Mr. Fringuello was the one who'd financed Antonio opening his own restaurant in the first place. 

Over an excellent lunch of risotto allo zafferano, he pondered his conversation with Carter. Reese had wasted the perfect opportunity to get him to answer any question Reese had. Why? Was it just because Carter had been there? It did explain why Reese had been hoarse that morning, he must have talked for hours… or had he? 

Perhaps Reese just hadn’t wanted to share any of it with Carter and had planned instead on interrogating him once they got back to his apartment. He wanted to believe that Reese had protected him, but he had an all too personal knowledge of just how far Reese was prepared to go to get information. It was strange to have a set of memories so very pleasant and unpleasant at one and the same time. 

He could so easily be in love with Reese, a traitorous part of his mind whispered _could?_ , but while he’d had his reckless moments, no matter how unlikely Nathan may have thought it, he tried not be stupid. He resisted the zabaglione and headed out to hail a cab. 

 

Twenty minutes later, traffic had been bad, he stopped to pick out the fabric for three new shirts at Alfred’s, arranged to have them delivered to Mr. Jay’s address, and then decided to go back to the library and write code, something that always centered him. 

 

Reese was sitting in a chair, feet up on the edge of the desk, reading _Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There_. 

Something tugged at the edge of his mind, but wouldn’t stick. “I would have contacted you if there was a new number, Mr. Reese.” 

Reese closed the book, tapping on the cover. “I assume you’ve read it?” 

“Of course. Not as good as the first book, but still an interesting read.” 

Reese was looking at him expectantly, but he had no idea why. 

It was maddening. What had been said? What had been done? “ _If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does_.”

Reese smirked. “And that’s from _Alice in Wonderland_. You’re not really at your best, Finch.” He rose to his feet, setting the book down on a nearby shelf. “If you remember anything— you need me to do, call me.” 

He sat and listened to Reese’s footsteps recede down the hallway. 

 

He was staring into space, holding a cup of green tea long gone cold, when his mind finally put two and two together and made four. He really couldn’t believe it had taken him so long. Reese was right, he wasn’t at his best. 

Carter said she’d picked them up after midnight. The police had initially got the call a little after ten. Reese must have had them holed up somewhere in the warehouse complex during that time. The warehouse footage. He easily found the footage again of Reese storming the warehouse, but within a few minutes, and after producing a small stack of bodies, Reese disappeared from view. 

He opened a facial recognition program, entered Reese’s picture, and went to make a fresh cup of tea. 

A few minutes later, just as the kettle was boiling, the computer pinged and he started the film again, seeing Reese half carrying him, disappearing around a corner. The next ping yielded Reese taking him into an office for Watson Shipping, the company name clearly visible over the door. He let the recognition software continue, but it ran out of footage without finding anything further.

Next, he hacked effortlessly into the Watson Shipping network, such as it was. There were notes about a potential sexual harassment lawsuit, the result of which had been the manager installing a security camera in the offices. He downloaded the film for the night in question and then deleted it from Watson Shipping’s server. He sat there for five minutes, steeling himself to watch the film, not sure where he and Reese would stand after he’d watched it. 

The footage was grainy and had no sound. Still, it was easy enough to follow events through interpreting actions as he watched himself try to tend to Reese’s wound, but once Reese had him seated in the corner, his back against Reese’s chest, there were no more visual cues to go by, he only knew they were still talking. He was gesticulating wildly until Reese caught his arms, wrapping his own arms around him, one hand flat against Finch’s exposed stomach. 

He was frustrated, and not only because he couldn’t remember the touch of Reese’s hand. 

If only Watson Shipping had bothered with sound in their surveillance plan. Sound. Reese’s phone. Like the cameras he installed in Reese’s cheap apartments, he’d promised himself he would never use the embedded program unless he had to, but now he had to know. He accessed the relevant sound files and worked on syncing them with the grainy digital images. 

 

“Tell you everything, donwanna.” 

He watched himself struggle against Reese’s arms, like he was trying to stand up again. 

“You’re slurring your words.” That was Reese’s _talk the madman in to handing over his Uzi_ voice, extra low and soothing as he explained why digital-Finch needed to stay put. 

He watched Reese rub slow comforting circles on digital-Finch’s stomach, getting just a trace of sense memory this time, enough to shorten his breath. 

Reese slowly adjusted digital-Finch against his body, his concern for digital-Finch’s condition palpable. 

He would have laughed at his attempt to separate himself from ‘digital-Finch’ if it wasn’t quite so pathetic. 

“The time has come, Harold, to talk of many things.” 

So much for Reese’s concern, it was just another fake out to get digital-Finch calm enough to answer questions.

“Did I ever tell you about the time the USO talked me in to dressing up like a Rockette?”

“What?” He and digital-Finch blurted out, in perfectly synchronized astonishment. 

“They said I had the legs for it and they were right, if I say so myself.”

Digital-Finch slid one hand suddenly from Reese’s knee up towards his hip. Only Reese catching hold of his hand stopped it from going any higher. 

“You don’t wanna fuck? Could ask me anything, John.”

So he had embarrassed himself. 

Reese spoke so softly in reply Finch had to back up the digital file and turn up the volume to hear him. “I want to, Harold, believe me, I want to, but not while you’re in this condition.” He went back to drawing those soothing circles on digital-Finch’s stomach. “Do you want to ask me anything?”

“What was your Rockette costume like?”

Reese laughed. “Really short-shorts, falsies, a curly blonde wig and lots of make-up. At least they let us keep our boots, said it made it funnier.”

Finch was having a lot of problem getting past imagining Reese in those short-shorts.

“Want you, John. Tell you anything you want to know.” Digital-Finch started shifting again, like he was trying to turn to face Reese. 

“You don’t really, Finch, that’s just the MK-ULTRA talking, lowers inhibition and affects judgment. I’m the last person in the world you want.” 

“You’re wrong.” Again he spoke in unison with digital-Finch. 

Reese gently turned him back, obviously at such pains not to injure digital-Finch that he ached to change places with his digital self. 

“Being a Rockette was fun, who’d have guessed it?” Reese had a lascivious smile on his face. “Later that night, Dave suggested—” digital-Finch squirmed against him and the smile abruptly disappeared “We play cards.”

Finch was willing to bet ‘playing cards’ was just a really bad euphemism. He could almost see the cogs turning over in Reese’s brain that given digital-Finch’s current condition adult topics of conversation should be firmly off the menu. 

“Did I ever tell you about my childhood, Finch? You may think you know everything about me but there are probably a few details you still don’t know. I grew up in Washington State but my mama was from—”

“Georgia.” Digital-Finch was grinning like an idiot. 

He told himself again, to ease his embarrassment, that he’d been drugged. 

“That’s right. But did you know she had the best laugh I’ve ever heard?” 

There it was that full and open smile that he loved but hardly ever got to see on Reese’s face. 

“She’d get tickled about something and couldn’t stop laughing, would barely be able to stand up. You couldn’t see her like that without wanting to laugh too.”

Finch was grinning too, one hand stretched out to touch Reese’s face on the screen. There was no cure for how he felt about this man, none, he was just going to have to learn to live with it, like he’d had to do before. 

Thirty minutes later the film ran out but he kept listening to the phone recording. Reese talked more about his mama and his sisters, skillfully avoided talking about his father when digital-Finch asked (Finch knew why) and talked over digital-Finch any time he started trying to offer information of his own, even when it was only about his own parents and brothers. He stopped listening and closed the files after Reese called Carter to come and get them. 

Not only had Reese failed to take a golden opportunity to interrogate him but Reese hadn’t even let him volunteer the most innocent of information. The same Reese who’d slept with him for information. The same Reese who hadn’t seemed the least bit guilty after he’d made it clear that he knew what Reese was up to, now appeared to feel guilty when he’d done nothing wrong. It just didn’t make any sense. 

“Finch.” Reese was standing in front of his desk.


	2. Chapter 2

When he’d left the library, he’d felt like he’d dodged a bullet. It didn’t seem that Finch really remembered much of the night before. 

If Finch asked him outright what had happened, and he was certain Finch eventually would, he’d confine his answer to how he’d avoided letting Finch talk while in the thrall of the MK-ULTRA. Whether Finch believed him or not, and he suspected that Finch being Finch he wouldn’t, they would still be in territory that would allow them to continue to work together and he really needed this job. 

And Harold, he _really_ needed Harold. That thought played over and over again in his mind as he bought coffee and started walking the streets looking for trouble. There was never anything quite like a physical altercation – damn, how much influence was Finch having on him? – for getting his head back in the game. 

For once, he had no luck at all in finding trouble to get into and that left him sitting in a diner, picking at a cheeseburger and fries, going over and over it. He tried to be honest with himself. Had there been an alternative course of action available or had he just used the situation as an excuse to do what he’d wanted to do? He couldn’t be an objective witness but he felt guilty as hell and in the end that was damning enough. He had to tell Finch and let the chips fall where they might. He paid the tab and headed back to the library. 

 

Finch was at his desk, too intensely focused on his monitors to have even noticed him come in. 

“Finch.” 

Finch’s face reddened like he’d caught him doing something embarrassing. 

He resisted the temptation to step around the desk so he could see the monitors, but only just. 

“There’s still no new number, Mr. Reese.”

“I came here to apologize.” All right, it was a good start. He could do this. 

“Apologize for what?” 

A puzzled look suited Finch more than it should have. He really had it bad. 

He had harbored some small hope that Finch had been faking his memory loss and that explaining wouldn’t actually be this hard but Finch really couldn’t remember. 

“I took advantage of you.” He felt like cringing as he blurted that out. It sounded like a plot device in a romance novel (he’d read some of Snow’s secret stash when desperate for something to read) and this was anything but a romance. 

“No, you didn’t.”

Did he remember?

“Detective Carter told me that you didn’t interrogate me and wouldn’t let her do it either.”

Apparently not. “That’s not why I’m apologizing.” He was staring at his own feet but forced himself to meet Finch’s eyes. “After Carter dropped us off, I took you to my apartment. You couldn’t settle, wouldn’t go to sleep.” 

Finch stared at him with nothing but curiosity. 

“The drug— you had an erection that lasted over an hour.”

Finch adjusted his glasses. “Priapism. I believe it’s a relatively common side effect.”

“So I fixed it for you.”

Finch raised one eyebrow. “You _fixed_ it for me?”

“I tried to get you to take care of yourself, but you were out of it.” He gripped the edge of the desk. “You were turning purple, Finch.”

“Purple?” 

“So I tried a hand job.” He realized he was blushing, couldn’t remember the last time that it had happened. “Thought it was the least— personal option, but it didn’t work.”

“Oh?”

“So I used my mouth on you.”

“And?”

 _And?_ “That worked. I’m sorry, Finch.”

“Why?”

“Because you were drugged and you wouldn’t have wanted it if you weren’t.”

Finch leaned back in his chair, obviously deep in thought. Reese thought about begging for forgiveness but was pretty sure Finch would just think it a ruse so he stood and waited for judgment. 

“You administered what amounted to first aid and now you’re feeling guilty about it. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. Unless there’s something else?”

“No, nothing else.” Honesty might just kill him but he couldn’t stop now. “I enjoyed it, Finch.”

“Then we both got something out of it.” Finch’s phone started to ring. “Let it go, Mr. Reese, I believe we may have a new number to worry about.” 

The relief was so immense he folded into the chair next to the desk to wait for the details. 

 

It had been an ugly case, a wife working with her husband’s mistress to kill him and split his assets. They’d both obviously been besotted with him until they’d found out about each other and, unluckily for him, a confrontation between the women had resulted in an unlikely partnership. 

He’d turned them over to Carter and had started to make his way back to his car, amazed, for once, to be walking away totally unscathed. 

Finch had been listening in on his conversation with Carter, he knew the particular resonance of a Finch-laden silence, so he wasn’t surprised when Finch spoke up as he crossed the street.

" _Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point_."

“It doesn’t have to, Finch, not when it’s right.” 

He shouldn’t have snapped. Finch was silent as Reese walked the next two blocks. 

“I’ve been in love before.”

He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He hadn’t expected any response from Finch beyond a terse ‘I’ll call you when we have another number, Mr. Reese.’ Perhaps Finch was ready to open up of his own volition, no truth drugs necessary. He continued walking, smirking at the thought of a gabby Finch. Next thing he knew they’d be having slumber parties and painting each other’s toenails. He stopped walking again, hit by the visceral memory of Finch spread out under him on the hotel bed. He had to admit that the slumber party idea held a certain allure. 

“Mr. Reese? Are you still there?”

What did people say in response to personal revelations like this? Normal people, people used to having normal conversations, not used to conducting interrogations with a pair of pliers and a heat lamp. 

“How’d that go?” He was definitely better with a heat lamp.

The sounds of Finch walking around the library stopped and Reese held his breath. 

“The first time? They loved each other more. I feel they made the right choice and their son is like a nephew to me. The second time? Well… _It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then._ ”

“What?”

“Wisdom from Lewis Carroll. I’ll be in touch when we have another number.”

“Wait!” Instinct was niggling at the back of his mind, something Finch had said, the way he’d said it. “Before?”

“Pardon?”

“You said, you’d been in love _before._ ’”

“A mere slip of the tongue. Goodnight, Mr. Reese.”

“Finch. _Finch?_ ”

Finch had broken the connection. 

He wasn’t going home. He was going to the library to lay his cards on the table. Not an easy thing to do for a man who’d always been taught to have three aces up his sleeve, just in case. 

 

He couldn’t find any trace of Finch in the computer room or in any of the nearby spaces they’d adapted for their use. It had taken him almost forty-five minutes to get back to the library so perhaps Finch had gone home already. A quick glance at the monitors showed programs running. 

Finch had mentioned, in passing, converting a space on the upper floor. He took the stairs slowly at first, strangely reluctant to bring this thing to a head. He was so ambivalent halfway up that he turned around and started back down the stairs again. 

Honesty was the problem. How the hell was he supposed to fake it? 

He started up the stairs again, two at a time, thinking he’d wing it, like he did everything else. 

The next floor was divided into small rooms that had been offices and study carrels when the library had been open. He’d worked his way halfway around the floor before his progress was stopped by a locked fire door. He stepped back and looked up towards the ceiling. He couldn’t actually see a camera but knew that it would be there, so he raised one hand in a casual salute and waited for a response. When none came, he gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and backed up to lean against the opposite wall, making it clear from his relaxed posture that he was settling in for the long haul. 

He stood there for another twenty minutes before he heard the door’s lock click open and he walked through, hearing the lock click back behind him. Now he knew he was in the right place. He went through another fire door that clicked open as he walked towards it that then opened into a small room still lined with its original bookshelves, groaning under the weight of books. The room was sparsely but comfortably furnished with a large couch, a reading chair and old rugs spread across the wooden floor and a small basic galley kitchen on one end. There were three doors leading off the room and he was tempted to keep searching for Finch – he shook off the memory of his sisters playing the _Mystery Date_ game – but now he’d made it this far he wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say, or even if it should be said at all. 

Better to just leave. Decision made, he turned and was actually gripping the fire door handle when Finch spoke.

“Leaving so soon, and after you went to such a great deal of effort to get in here?” 

All he had to do was turn around and say it was just another case of curiosity killed the spy and then he could be on his way. Perhaps he’d just keep moving right out of New York, perhaps even out of the country. He still knew ways to cross borders but he’d never run away from anything in his life – he ruthlessly stifled the small voice whispering ‘except from relationships’ – and turned to face Finch, so busy with his own thoughts he was totally unprepared. 

Finch was barefoot, dressed only in a paint spattered deep blue v-neck t-shirt and jeans.

“What do you want?” Finch was standing in an open doorway, the one all the way to the right. “ _Mr. Reese?_ ” Finch moved across the floor towards him, a worried frown wrinkling his brow. 

He could do this. He’d faced down assassins and, much more terrifyingly, amorous ambassadors’ wives before. He could do this. 

“Did you get hit on the head?” Finch rested one hand on Reese’s arm as he looked him over. “John, can you speak?” 

He had Finch backed up against the bookshelves and was kissing him before he’d even finished thinking that it was the worst idea he’d ever had. As Finch wasn’t kissing back, he was right. He let Finch go, stepping away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Finch ran a finger across his lips. “What brought this on?”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

Finch looked confused even though Reese had answered his question truthfully, if not straightforwardly. 

“Can’t a man relax in the privacy of his own library?”

“You’re totally relaxed in formal wear. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

He was really, really tired. “If you’re going to be evasive, I’m going to be forced to investigate and I don’t think either one of us wants that. Just tell me.”

“I was painting.”

“I would have helped, all you had to do was ask.”

“Not that sort of painting, come on, I’ll show you.”

Frankly, he would have followed Finch’s denim encased ass anywhere. 

Finch walked back into the small room he’d emerged from which turned out to be a small office combined with an art studio. On the easel was a half-finished painting of the city skyline. 

“I haven’t painted in years but this room gets such good light I couldn’t resist.”

He stepped closer to the painting. He didn’t know much about art but it was emotive, not just a well executed copy of the skyline. “It’s good, Finch.” 

“Thank you. Now, if your curiosity is quite satisfied, I’d like to get back to it.” 

He was turning to leave when he spotted the row of canvases propped up in a rack in the corner. He moved over to them, admiring the painting at the front of the rack, a cabin bathed in tree dappled light. 

Finch stepped up behind him. “My grandfather’s lake house. I often paint from memory.” 

He would have stepped away then, but something in the feel of Finch’s hand on his arm urging him away triggered his instincts, the sure and certain knowledge that he needed to see more of the paintings. He reached for the corner of the canvas.

“Please, Mr. Reese, I must insist you leave now.”

Reese flipped the painting carefully forward, not sure what he’d find, perhaps just another clue to Finch’s background. 

He was looking at a painting of himself. Naked, glistening with sweat, arm and chest muscles flexed with effort, looking downwards, biting his lip in concentration, his eyes hazy. The painting stopped just above his hips but he knew it was how he would have looked to Harold while he was riding his cock. He looked— even given the subject matter, it was so much more than sexual, it was a declaration. 

He turned to Finch, who looked miserable. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have painted it.”

This time when he kissed Harold, after a slight hesitation Harold kissed back leaning in closer, hands on Reese’s chest. He slid a hand to Harold’s denim covered ass, squeezing, his other hand starting on Harold’s zipper. He would have preferred to go slower but was worried that at any moment Harold would come to his senses and end it. He wasn’t surprised therefore when Finch stepped back and he didn’t attempt to hold on. So he’d misread the painting, creating beauty had never been his gift. 

“I’m not up to rolling around on the floor anymore, but there’s a futon in the next room.” Harold took his hand. “If you want, John.”

“I want.”

 

He woke up sore and aching in a small dark windowless room that reeked of sex and sweat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy. He stretched, feeling the sting of the bite on his collarbone, before reaching out. The other side of the futon was cold and empty. 

He sat up, fumbling to turn on the small bedside light. If Finch had bolted again he was going to hunt him down and—

The door swung open as Harold entered, carrying a tray with mugs and a couple of plates of toast and scrambled eggs on it. Harold put it down on the bedside table and leaned over carefully to kiss him. He started to snake a hand into Harold’s dressing gown but Harold stood back up. 

“Eat first, John.” 

He liked the sound of _first_ and watched from hooded eyes as Harold took one of the mugs and a plate and walked around to prop himself up on the other side. He shifted slightly, to bring his shoulder in to closer contact with Harold’s, before reaching for his own plate. 

They ate in companionable silence until the text alert sounded on Harold’s phone. Harold put his plate down and pulled his phone out of his dressing gown pocket. 

He wasn’t sure he liked the little amused smile on Harold’s face as he tucked his phone back into his pocket. 

He put his own plate down. “Something I should know?”

Harold frowned, but then said “It was Denham. He wanted to know if I’m available for dinner.”

“You’re not. I don’t share, Harold.”

“I fear you’re a little presumptuous, Mr. Reese.” 

Finch was right, he was. They hadn’t discussed this thing between them at all, not while he’d been totally focused on how to get Harold to fuck him harder without damaging Harold in the process. He’d wanted to remember it for days, every time he sat down, and he would. Just as well, as he wasn’t sure now it would ever be repeated. 

“This is an equal partnership.” 

He jerked his head up to turn and stare at Harold who was unconsciously plucking at the sheets. 

“What about your… friends at the Moonlight bar or McDougalls?”

He should have known Finch would know all about his casual hookups. “Done. And you?”

“Denham and I— well, he has something more in mind than I do.”

He shouldn’t say anything more, didn’t have the right to ask. “But you stayed the night with him.” _And you don’t do casual._ He hoped to god he was right about that but then where did that leave him? Did Harold want both of them? He thought about Denham’s hands on Harold and felt his own hands tighten in to fists. Just for once, he wanted something all his own. 

“It’s embarrassing. I fell asleep on his couch watching the late news. He threw a blanket over me and left me to it. It was stupid of me and I paid for it the next day.”

“Your limp was worse.”

“You noticed?”

“I was looking for any clue, Harold.” He took a deep breath. “So, do we have a deal?” 

“Done, John.” 

Understanding reached, he rolled to hover over Harold. He was sore, too sore really for what he had in mind, but if Harold were willing he wanted him again. Harold pushed against his chest, apparently unwilling. Reese rolled back slightly, wincing with the change of position. 

“Just as I thought.” Finch’s hand rose to cup Reese’s jaw. 

Apparently Harold was going to look out for him whether he wanted him to or not. 

“ _Harold._ ”

“ _John_ … Is it your preference, to bottom?”

He carefully considered Harold’s intonation. He’d initially thought it wasn’t physically an option for Harold, but now he wasn’t so sure. Did Harold want him to beg for it? Was Harold looking for a promise of his submission? It wasn’t particularly his thing but he really didn’t have a preference and, if that was what Harold wanted, he could accommodate him. 

He stared at Harold’s face for so long, trying to read him, that Harold was moved to speak again. “I asked you a simple question.”

And in the end, that was exactly what it was, a simple question. “No preference. You?”

“None. Like you, I never take anything I’m not prepared to give. I have my limitations but we can work around them.”

Harold’s face reddened and Reese thought briefly about offering reassurances only to realize it might well offend more than comfort. Instead, he kissed Harold, working the belt of his dressing gown loose to caress his chest and sides, enjoying Harold’s breathless laugh as he accidentally tickled him. He slid down the bed taking Harold’s cock into his mouth, holding his hips firmly to stop him bucking up and possibly hurting himself. After just a few minutes Harold touched his hair, drawing him back up. “I want you in me, John.” 

Harold swung his legs around to sit before standing up, shedding his dressing gown in the process. He grabbed a couple of pillows and piled them on the carpet by the side of the futon. John could see immediately what he planned to do and grabbed the lube and a condom as he came around the futon to join Harold, taking him in his arms and kissing him, gasping as Harold caressed his cock. 

Harold went slowly to his knees on the pillows, carefully lowering his upper body across the futon, supporting his face on his crossed arms. He slid in behind Harold, slicking up his fingers, but found he was hesitant to go further. 

Something about all the maneuvering just seemed too clinical, almost like something at the doctor’s office and while he had no problem with playing doctor if Harold were so inclined, that feeling probably had a lot to do with Harold’s hesitation in mentioning his limitations. 

He could fix it. He bent low over Harold’s back and started kissing and licking his way down Harold’s spine, careful not to apply too much pressure, pleased when a low moan escaped Harold. When he reached Harold’s ass he bit him, not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to leave a mark. Harold’s moans grew louder, so it wasn’t just that he liked to bite, good to know. He bit the other cheek, just for good measure, before spreading Harold with his thumbs and licking him. Harold gasped and pushed back against him as far as he could, an unmistakable signal to continue. 

He was happy to oblige, having always loved using his mouth on his lovers, loving the feeling of them coming slowly apart beneath him. He licked and prodded, varying speed, listening to the messages Harold’s body was returning, settling in finally to long, slow licks and firm pressure against the ring of muscle. When Harold started panting, John rolled the condom on to his cock, slicked up his fingers again and started opening Harold up while licking and biting his lower back and ass. 

“ _Now_ , John.”

He entered Harold slowly, anxious to give him time to adjust as Harold had been really tight around his fingers. That same tightness around the head of his cock had him fighting the instinctive urge to thrust, to take, not sure just how much Harold could really handle and unwilling to ask him. He withdrew a little and eased further back in, slowly, inch by inch until he was all the way in. Now they were both panting as he rocked slowly into Harold, biting his lip as he concentrated on keeping that easy pace, Harold’s body drawing him back in again and again. 

“If you don’t start— fucking me— soon— John— I’ll tell— Fusco— about you— being a Rockette,” Harold panted out.

If that’s what Harold wanted, that’s what he’d get and with pleasure. He braced Harold’s hips with his hands and drew almost all of the way out before slamming home again and again, his thrusts accompanied by a litany of encouraging beautiful filth from a gasping Harold, but even that died out as he snaked a hand around Harold to caress his cock, bringing him off in a few strokes, his own orgasm hitting him a couple of thrusts later.

He lowered himself carefully over Harold again, kissing his back and nuzzling his neck before withdrawing carefully, dealing with the condom and leaning back against the futon, reaching out a hand to caress the side of Harold’s face. 

Harold slowly levered himself up from the bed, using Reese’s arm as a brace, before turning around to lie down on the futon again. Reese followed him, moving closer to share the corner of Harold’s pillows, throwing one arm across Harold’s chest. 

Most people understood how to live but knew nothing of dying. He’d always known he was going to die violently before he made old bones but apart from a few golden moments along the way, his early childhood, Jessica, he’d known little about living. Now, he was in love for the last time. 

He should tell Harold. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

Harold murmured a sleepy ‘fine, I’m fine,’ patting his arm. 

Harold didn’t know any more about living than he did, but together they’d figure out whatever life was left to them. He went to sleep.


End file.
